I was on holiday in Corfu with two mates, one Spurs and the other a West Ham fan. I hunted high and low for a bar, pub, house, anywhere that would be showing the game, but these were pre-Sky days and I had little joy. Knowing what we needed to do, I’d kinda resigned myself to us not winning, so decided I’d give it a miss and we all went out on the beer. Alan the West Ham fan, seeing me later that evening, said ‘Fuck this, let’s find Brooksy a phone box. His nervousness is getting on my tits.’ So a phone box was found in a bar and I rang my local boozer, the Railway and Bicycle in Sevenoaks, owned by Ray Brady, brother of Liam and father to my best mate, Jamie. I knew the game would be on in there.
So the phone call was made and Ray answers. ‘What’s the score?’ I ask. ‘One-nil to The Arsenal,’ he replies. ‘Bollocks. That’s that, then. It’s nearly over, ain’t it?’ I think that was my response, knowing I’ve got a bleeding Spurs fan to go back to. Only for Ray to come back with ‘But the kick-off was delayed. It’s not over yet.’ The line goes quiet.
Ray suddenly says, ‘Cliff, you still there?’ ‘Yes.’ I then hear nothing but pandemonium. In the background Jamie grabs the phone, I don’t recall anything he said apart from ‘Thomas has done it, Mickey Thomas last fucking minute.’ I don’t remember hanging up or what happened in the next few seconds. But I do remember running down the street towards my two mates shouting something like ‘We’ve only fucking done it!’ Only to suddenly realise I’m being chased by two Greek fellas cos I’ve not paid for the phone call.
At the time I was serving in the British Army as a vehicle mechanic, in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, and had been posted to Germany in the early April. My first weekend in camp was for the FA Cup semi-finals on 15 April, and keeping tabs on the scores back home, I listened in on BFBS radio as the Hillsborough tragedy unfolded.
As those of us who were there know, the 80s didn’t offer the luxury of instant communication and wall-to-wall football on TV, as enjoyed today. No mobile phones or internet obviously, but my situation, in this respect, was even more desperate. My posting was to a tiny Military Police detachment of 20-odd personnel, on what was the border between West Germany and East Germany, adjacent to the small but perfectly formed town of Helmstedt. You will have heard of Checkpoint Charlie, the border crossing between East and West Berlin. Well, we were Checkpoint Alpha, the gateway to the 200km ‘corridor’ road link to West Berlin through the Soviet-occupied East Germany (DDR). Checkpoint Bravo got you into West Berlin from the corridor, through the DDR. Basically, if you didn’t fly, this, and a train, were your only way of getting in and out of Berlin, and all allied (British, French, US) traffic had to pass through us. We were responsible for the safe transit of all allied travellers to and from Berlin, and for keeping the corridor ‘swept’ and open. It was a truly fascinating place to be with many interesting personalities passing through, and a few months later, of course, in the November, quite out of the blue, the Wall fell, and the world momentously and irrevocably changed.
Although we were part of the British Army of the Rhine, we were out on a limb, 200km from our parent regiment in Berlin. Because we were so far east, we could not receive a BFBS television reception, our vital link with all things UK. This will sound ridiculous to the kids, but in order that we could keep up with events back home our daily TV coverage was recorded on to VHS cassettes in Berlin, and sent to us by train each day, meaning all of our TV was 24 hours behind (if and when we actually got it). A central VHS player then relayed the recordings to our adjacent flats/rooms, with a duty ‘tape swapper-overer’ rostered on to change tape every three hours. While not relevant to this particular night, there were many occasions when watching a late night movie or similar the tape ran out, only for the designated tape-changer to have fallen asleep/gone on the piss etc … oh how we laughed. German TV, you may be surprised to hear, opted not to broadcast the most momentous game of football the world had ever witnessed, so that particular option was not available.
So, six weeks after my arrival, the game we had all been waiting for, for ever, had finally arrived, and I had no means with which to watch it. I could think of nothing else. But what to do? I was unable to leave camp for any extended period, due to being on standby, and knew very few people nearby. Eventually, I befriended a Rangers fan who worked on camp, in a civilian admin capacity. He lived near Hanover, and said he would get his son, who could get a BFBS reception, to tape it for me.
I managed to get someone to cover for me, while I drove an hour and a half each way to collect the tape. I had avoided the result, quite easily (no other Arsenal fans for miles), and I picked up the tape with barely a word spoken between us, other than a quick danke. I didn’t even want to look him in the eye, for fear of getting wind of the result.
So, picture the scene, there I was, in the camp communal TV room (the only place other than the guard room that had a VHS player) completely on my own. With the time difference, I think it was now well past two in the morning, settling down to watch the game, and well, you know the rest. My celebrations were mostly silent screams – and crying. I can feel almost every emotion. Still one of my clearest and most vivid memories, which in the footballing sense, I know will never be surpassed. I couldn’t sleep, and had absolutely nobody to celebrate with, and just remember walking around our tiny compound, German beer in one hand, VHS tape in the other, until daybreak.
In 1988 I got a job in Muscat, Oman. Nominally Muslim, the people were very friendly especially to the British. In those days there was no satellite television, only local, and that was in Arabic. I lived in a quiet suburb in the capital. I remember that evening as being very quiet and very hot, 38 degrees C.
In those days there was no instant contact with the UK other than phone or fax and we were three hours ahead of London. I knew what was at stake but there was no possibility of a live broadcast or radio. In fact, the only way of knowing what happened was to listen to the BBC World Service – Middle East section. As that was broadcast on long wave the only access was in my car. I knew that at 1.30 in the morning they would devote a minute to world sports and I hoped this game was important enough to get a mention. To make sure I did not miss anything and to ensure I got everything right, i.e., radio on but not the engine, I settled in at 1.15. By then I knew the game was over but I just had to sweat it out – literally. At 1.30 came the smooth tones of the BBC presenter announcing that it was time to go to the sports desk. Without any ado he went straight into ‘And Arsenal …’ I leapt out of the car and ran down the road screaming. I did not need any more from the presenter as I knew that the first club mentioned would be the winner.
I missed the goal. I was working in a pub in Dundalk, Ireland and was late for my shift (because of the game). When Richardson went down injured I gave up hope and decided to slink into work and save my job. I hopped on my bike and ten minutes later walked into a bar in chaos. I don’t remember seeing the goal until the next day.
In the spring of 1989, my best pal, a Spurs fan, his friend and I spent the summer travelling around Europe in my Peugeot 504 estate car, picking up work where we could, and sleeping in the back with the seats folded down. We planned to depart in mid-May, starting with a drive through France to reach Barcelona in time to see if we could get into the European Cup final on Wednesday 24 May. By the time of our departure, the First Division should have been done and dusted, 13 May being the official date on which the final round of matches were scheduled. Of course, Hillsborough changed everything.
We had reached Barcelona and caught the commentary of the FA Cup final on the BBC World Service whilst sitting in a park. My friend and I had managed to pick up a pair of tickets for the European Cup final between AC Milan and Steaua Bucharest and were treated to a Nou Camp overtaken by Milan fans, and a 4–0 masterclass by a classic Milan team with Gullit and Van Basten scoring the goals. After they had finished parading the trophy and were off the pitch, we – along with a few dozen others who hadn’t left the stadium – were able to get on to the pitch and have a good wander round for about five minutes before being chased off by security. It was a fantastic night.
Forty-eight hours later and we were further south along the east coast of Spain. We had settled down to sleep in the car near a dry river bed. My two compatriots were fast asleep. There was no chance of me getting a signal for Radio 2 here, but I could get the good old World Service on long wave. Not that they had commentary on the game. No, I had to wait for a news bulletin to get the news. There was a dull science programme on before it which seemed to drag on for ever. Finally, the news came on and they read the headlines, concluding with ‘And the league title is decided in dramatic fashion in the last minute at Anfield’, except they didn’t say who had actually won it. I was obviously on tenterhooks, but had to wait for the theoretically more important non-sporting stuff to be read out, before learning that Arsenal had actually won the title with Mickey Thomas scoring the late goal that sealed it.
I went nuts inside the car, waking up my two travelling companions. My Spurs-supporting best pal was not exactly enthralled by the news, and got out to relieve his bladder. Unfortunately it meant a minor invasion of mosquitoes, although we didn’t realise at the time. It was only in the morning we discovered that he’d been bitten all over, but for some reason they didn’t take a bite out of me or his mate.
I grew up in the Channel Islands and was spending a long weekend in Guernsey on a school football trip aged nine. Our match overlapped with the Liverpool v Arsenal season finale and a few of us were gutted to miss the game. Walking back to our B&B we passed someone’s house and they happened to be watching the game in their living room. We crept up to the window and caught the last five minutes peering through the glass, trying to get a good view through the net curtain. It was the most surreal moment when the winning goal went in – disbelief, euphoria and wild celebrations through a window with the unsuspecting family on their sofa. They had been unaware of the three little boys who had unwittingly shared with them one of the greatest ends to a footballing season.
I was on a fishing holiday in Ireland with my dad, who hated football. We’d booked a room above a pub in a dreary town in County Cavan for the night. The bar was full of local Liverpool fans, flags, champions posters, shirts etc, getting ready to watch the match so I went upstairs with the old man to watch the game in our room. All through the second half Dad was moaning about wanting to go downstairs for a pint. Finally, as Steve McMahon made his ‘one minute’ gesture, I cracked and decided to face the Liverpool fans. Got down the stairs. Telly was off, people quietly leaving, flags coming down. I asked the barman what was going on. ‘The cockney bastards scored in the last minute.’ Me: ‘YEEEEESS! Turn the telly on, mate.’ Not a chance! Didn’t see the goal for ages.
I still haven’t watched the whole match. Friday, 26 May 1989 I was in Tasmania, Australia near Wineglass Bay, nowhere near anywhere I could get any live info on a football game in England let alone commentary. Sharing remote shoreline hostel accommodation with a New Yorker and a rugby fan, neither of them interested in football, I went on to the beach, looked up at the starry night sky and prayed to the gods of football for Arsenal to please do it. And went to bed. No access to news next day either. At an Aussie party on Saturday evening this diver dude reckoned he’d seen something about a team in red winning the ‘England cup’. Bollocks, must’ve been Liverpool.
Trekking/hitching my way on to Hobart on Sunday I arrived somewhere I could buy a newspaper. Columns on Aussie Rules and other sports, no football news. But then low down on an inside page I saw a black and white picture of John Barnes. Bollocks, must’ve been Liverpool. And then I read the 40 to 50 words that told me that favourites Liverpool had lost and Arsenal had won the league at Anfield. I read it again. And again. I couldn’t believe it. I’ll never forget it.
When that goal went in most of the bar in Magaluf was in uproar. It was amazing, I don’t remember feeling that happy before or after in my life. I cannot remember much else about that holiday.
I was actually in my mother’s womb at the time. My dad got the news of my not-too-distant arrival while on holiday in Italy, the same week that Arsenal had to do the unthinkable and win by two clear goals away to Liverpool. In those times, it was really difficult to even find out the score, let alone sit and enjoy a live match in a very small suburb in Italy, so when my dad found a bar only half a mile from the apartment he was over the moon. He watched the game with another Englishman on holiday until the seventieth minute. Then he put his family first, even on such a big football occasion. With my expectant mum watching my restless two-year-old brother, who was kicking and screaming for attention, she decided to take Ritchie back to the hotel. Feeling guilty and worried for his young family he left too, thinking they wouldn’t do it anyway, and headed back to the apartment. He had no clue how the game unfolded until he bumped into that English bloke from the bar the next day.
I was in a pub in the middle of Merthyr Tydfil, not exactly known for its hospitality to the ‘English’ let alone a Londoner. It was better known for its loud music, drunkenness and a clientele with a tendency for violence and mayhem. The girl next to me was glad the game was coming to a close as she was ready for the nightclub. She was what you would call a ‘Barbie doll’: petite, good figure, perm, make-up, manicured nails, tight white trousers with matching blouse; you know the sort. As Thomas ran through on goal Barbie had a full half pint of lager about an inch from her lips. As the ball hit the net, I shot to my feet, arms in the air, knocking Barbie’s elbow on the way up. I think she wanted to join in the celebrations as she tipped the full contents of her drink over the top of her head. With perm soaked and lager running down her blouse and trousers, she screamed, ‘Look what you’ve done!’
I was living in Amsterdam at the time and listening to the game at home on an intermittent BBC commentary. The commentary kept dipping in and out so it wasn’t always clear what was happening. Once Thomas scored it was almost surreal to realise that Arsenal had won so dramatically but everywhere around was so quiet. My wife, not being a football fan, came into the room to see what the noise was about and promptly left with a ‘that’s good’.
January 89 I headed to the far north of Norway to a town called Bodø just inside the Arctic Circle where I was contracted to DJ in a club called Joe’s Garage for a few months. I decided I wanted to drive back to London with the forlorn hope of possibly getting a ticket to see the game. On Monday 22 May we set off from Bodø to drive the almost 900-mile journey to Bergen in the south of Norway. Although it was May, high up in some of the mountains that we drove through there was still a bit of snow. Once we made it to Bergen we took the ferry over to Newcastle and then drove down to London.
My best mate was a bloke called Bob, but Bob wasn’t into football at all and knew nothing about it. He’d arranged for us and a few of the lads to go to a club called Hollywood’s in Romford. Five minutes to go and Bob understood that a 1–0 win wasn’t enough and he said ‘Tone, come on, mate, let’s put an end to your misery and head over to Romford and have a laugh at Hollywood’s. Let’s go now.’ I told him in no uncertain terms that I was watching until the end. Within a minute of Adams lifting up the trophy we were back in my trusty GTi and flying over to Romford. Before I drove back to Norway I had decorated my car in yellow Arsenal flags and scarves and was wearing the yellow away shirt. I stopped at a service station in the Midlands and lost count of the number of blokes who approached me telling me they supported Forest, Leicester, Birmingham etc but wished me well and said they’d never seen a game like it. The same thing happened in Newcastle and in Scandinavian places I stopped on the way back to Bodø.
Here in Australia it was the middle of the night and when Thomas scored I threw my little bundle of joy into the air, he brushed the ceiling, and in true Bob Wilson style I managed to catch him before he hit the floor.
On that Friday night in Cape Town, South Africa, my girlfriend at the time, knowing what was going on, decided to go out for the evening, leaving me alone to watch the game on TV. My only company that night was the cat, Teddy Bear. After Michael Thomas scored, I jumped up, shouting. Teddy Bear, startled by this, also leapt up but dug her claws into my leg. But what’s a scratch or two, or blood rivulets – it was the best night ever.
I was in Norway and had promised to pick up my dad at home and take him to the train station, where he was catching a train at midnight. As he left the car, the news at midnight came on. I screamed, ran up to my dad, screaming ‘2–0! They did it! 2–0! 2–0!’ My dad, of course, had absolutely no idea what I was talking about, and judging by the looks from the rest of the waiting room, no one else understood it either.
I was in Tenerife for a week with my wife and one-year-old daughter. Managed to find a phone and ring a mate. He said it was 2–0. Then I said, ‘Oh well, at least we tried.’ He said, ‘No, Arsenal won!’ Well, I couldn’t believe it. Lots of hugs and kisses for my daughter (and wife).
I was in a bar in Malta on holiday, the game was being shown live and a Gunners fan said, ‘If we win this I will buy champagne for everyone in this bar.’ He was true to his word.
Three days before the Hillsborough tragedy I’d booked a week’s holiday in Italy, leaving on 26 May. I don’t even want to recall what I put myself through trying to sort this out – I agonisingly explored every alternative, spent hours on the phone to travel agents, but it all came down to this: go to Italy and miss the game, or go to the game and forfeit the cost of the holiday (which was considerable in relation to my wage) and leave my travel companion in the lurch. In the end I chose what I thought was the ‘mature’ option (I was 23).
Friends made it perfectly clear to me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life, implored me to think differently, to chuck the holiday and forget about the money because we were going to win the league at Anfield and I would never, ever forgive myself. I can still picture my closest Arsenal mate at the time, now sadly gone, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking me straight in the eyes and telling me, ‘Do. Not. Do. This.’ And I knew he was right.
It was Sicily. Taormina. We arrived in the afternoon. As soon as we’d got to the hotel, I went out on the prowl to find where I’d watch the game. Some likely-looking bars. Nothing. I’d bought a radio with me, with short and long wave, as a back-up. Nothing. Couldn’t find any broadcast of the game. So I went to bed, completely self-absorbed, miserable and agitated. By now my travel companion was wishing we’d cancelled after all, or they’d come on their own. I remember continually checking the time – oh yeah, so it’s kicked off now … half-time now … trying to imagine what was happening whilst at the same time trying not to think about it any more, read something, watch meaningless Italian TV.
And I remember thinking, that’s it, full-time now, it’s over. And feeling nothing, absolutely nothing. A world away my Arsenal family were … experiencing something, but I couldn’t know what. I half drifted off into an unhappy sleep.
So I could end there, but there is one more thing to say about that night. It’s embarrassing and I’ve told very few people. But it’s true so it belongs here. Somewhere in that space between sleep and wakefulness, I was suddenly wide awake, sitting up. I’d felt a surge of energy shoot through my body, a jolt – no, more like a colossal wave – right through my body, an incredible physical rush like nothing I’d experienced before, and I sat bolt upright and noticed – with surprise and confusion – tears prickling my eyes and there’s this one thought, this one thought in my mind clear as a bell, utter, utter clarity: we’ve fucking done it. Ecstatic joy running through my veins, desperately needing release and expression, sitting in this stupid fucking hotel room trying not to appear utterly unhinged.
I am crying as I write this.
I looked at the clock. It’s about ten minutes after the game should have finished if it had kicked off on time.
Us four started a ‘Georgie Graham’s red and white army’ chant right at the beginning of half-time, the entire seating section responded and then the standing lot joined in and it went back and forth for a bit and then all of us in metronomic unison for pretty much the entirety of the interval. I have two children but I am pretty sure that was the proudest moment of my life.
Seeing that net bulge and realising what that meant sent me into an almost indescribable delirium. Total disbelief, informed by never having seen Arsenal achieve something like this and also supporting a club since 1976 that had won things but had always been the butt of even our own jokes. I’d seen Lee Chapman, John Hawley, Colin Hill, George Wood, etc, some truly average, often terrible players who never indicated we would ever scale the heights we did in 1989. We writhed around for what seemed like a lifetime, crying, shouting, shrieking. And then the whistle blew and we just carried on. I can’t remember how long after the final whistle it was but my friend Nick and I both slumped down, our backs against the barrier between the standing and seating sections and just wept.
The biggest thing that stays with me is that it was the first time I had seen an older man cry. I haven’t a clue who he was and he must have been 65 if not a day. I just remember looking around at everyone celebrating and looking towards the white wall and seeing him standing there.
It was my stag weekend. I sat with my brother Bob, my best man, and a Liverpool fan. At the final whistle he gave me his camera and I walked down to the front of the stand until I reached the tunnel. As I got there a lot of Arsenal staff were just rushing out and on to the pitch, so I took my opportunity and blended in. I suddenly realised I was in amongst the players and on the hallowed Anfield turf. I managed to hug most of the players and George Graham, and then I took my chances and made my way with the official photographers to the centre circle for the trophy giving. At this point I was challenged for the first time by a steward (he probably realised an official photographer was unlikely to be wearing an Arsenal shirt). After asking who the fuck I was, I just said I’m a fan, please can I just get some photos. Amazingly he just said ‘Five minutes’, and that was enough. I ran off to the away end and saw my mates looking down, gobsmacked.
My friend had got tickets from a tout up in London – about ten rows behind George Graham and Kenny Dalglish on the halfway line. If I had a bad heart it would have gone that day. The thing is we were totally unaware of the time. It was just going so slow and yet so fast, it was a real spooky feeling. When Michael Thomas scored we knew it was near the end but we didn’t know how close it was. We just went mental. But the Liverpool fans around us were all right – they were shaking hands and saying well done. The best thing about it for me is that I actually managed to get on to the pitch. There was one security guy. He understood that it was an amazing night and he let me on and I shook hands with O’Leary and I actually kissed the man who scored that goal. My sons, by the way, are called Thomas and Michael.
I’d driven up to Anfield with my seven-year-old son Greg. I made my way to the front so my son could see, whereupon a police officer lifted him over the wall and sat him there in safety. Upon the final whistle he beckoned me over as well. When the players came over they handed him the trophy and held him up to the crowd.
After the players had left the pitch I witnessed one of the most moving things I had ever seen. We had been speaking to an old Arsenal fan in a wheelchair in the disabled section earlier, and he had since been wheeled on to the pitch. George Graham was the last to leave the pitch with the trophy, and on his way he walked past the wheelchair guy. He then stopped, turned around and walked back, and placed the trophy in this guy’s lap.
At the final whistle, the atmosphere in our section was indescribable, way beyond anything I had experienced. The police held us in, as that used to be necessary for safe crowd dispersion, but we were in no hurry anyway. I think we sang our ‘Are you watching, Tottenham?’ chant about 200 times.
We just go mad. I’m aware of bare-chested grown men, on this warm, balmy night, hugging each other and crying. We finally leave the ground and on our way back to the car we walk past an old Liverpool programme seller. ‘Well done,’ he says, ‘Well done to The Arsenal.’
After the game some Liverpool fans came down the pitch and stood in front of us, and all the Arsenal fans sang ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ all the way through with all the proper words, out of respect for the Hillsborough fans. About half the Liverpool fans stayed behind and (bitterly disappointed though they were) applauded the Arsenal team on their lap of honour. I’ve never forgotten their conduct that night. When I left the stadium I got grabbed and kissed by two rather attractive Scouse girls.
That must be the only time ‘you’ll never get a job’ was not sung. We really felt for them at that moment and it was moving that they all hung around at the end. Anfield was very emotional and we all sensed a feeling of togetherness.
I remember the first services on the motorway. What a party. People were just jumping around, dancing, singing and hugging everyone. Eventually back home to my mum’s and up at 7 a.m. to start the Saturday shift at Asda.
When Mickey scored it was really hard to describe the joy. I remember trying to grab a copper’s helmet, no idea why. We got home at 5.15 a.m., ecstatic. I then went to work on the adrenaline. I was a carpenter/joiner, had a job booked in for Saturday morning at 8.30. I was on a high, the bathroom went well.
At 1–0 we saw the police ring the ground, so we knew time was getting short. An unforgettably emotional version of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was being sung by all sides of the ground, including some of us. I remember looking up to the sky, which still retained some light, saying to my uncle, who had died that year, ‘It’s just one more goal, please.’ Then it happened. Tears of joy, disbelief and sadness for all those that weren’t there. The Liverpool fans continued their serenade and were generous in their applause. We left the ground in silence as a mark of respect. I recall a massive skinhead breaking through the police lines and approaching me … only to put his hand out and say, ‘Well played, mate, only one team tried to win tonight.’
After the match, as we poured out of the ground, there were a number of Liverpool supporters waiting to shake our hands and offer congratulations, young and old. Really classy and not something I could imagine I’d have done had the positions been reversed.
We were in the Main Stand at Anfield and very near the Kop so had to stay as under cover as we could. I had my shirt buttoned up over my Arsenal shirt. The people around us soon clocked we were Londoners but were generally quite good. At the final whistle the men around us were shaking our hands to say well done and it was a woman who gave me the choice line of ‘lucky cockney bastards’. On the final whistle, readying for the presentation of the trophy, we jumped down into the paddock alongside the pitch and stood on top of the old dugouts and shook the players’ hands as they went down the tunnel. We then walked around the pitch to join the away fans in the corner for the escort to the coaches. On the way out of Liverpool we were flagged down by two Arsenal fans whose car had been nicked due to leaving a scarf on the parcel shelf.
One incident stands out in my mind, as it will always do. As John Lukic got the ball and played it out to Lee Dixon, my brother Steve nudged me and simply said: ‘Now would be a good time to score …’ Simple as that. After the game we went back to our hotel (where the Liverpool players were staying!) and we just stood at the bar with our friend Mike, who we also went with, and looked at each other in total disbelief.
When Mickey went through the first time and virtually back-passed it to Grobbelaar the crowd pushed forward and my glasses were knocked off. I managed to catch them, the lens and the little screw. How? Who knows? Who cares? I asked this copper next to me if he had a small penknife and showed what needed to be done. He fixed ’em. Nice one, officer. Every time we went forward, the crowd swayed and I held on to my glasses. We had no idea how long was left as Mickey went charging through the middle. I grabbed my glasses to save them being knocked off … and didn’t see the ball hit the back of the net. Didn’t care.
I was in the Kop. After the goal my only physical action was to drop my head and close my eyes. Heaven. I glanced round at my mate a few feet back – he gave me a funny half-smile – then back to the pitch and carried on celebrating in my head.
The trophy bit was a bit of a haze but I do remember Rocastle, his face lit up and his eyes dancing. You see, he was our bloke on the pitch despite Mickey Thomas getting the goal. Rocky’s medal was ours as well and when he smiled, we smiled.
Mayhem is an understatement. The hairs on my body felt like cold nails, never-ending noise, it was quite unimaginable. Hugging, kissing, jumping up and down, grown men crying. I thought I had experienced everything emotionally but this blew my mind. I got up on a barrier – standing with arms held wide, head tilted back thanking God, eyes closed, just soaking it all in. We, as one, singing ‘Boring, Boring, Arsenal’ over and over again. David O’Leary was in tears. We sang all the way home.
I honestly don’t remember the goal but I do remember collapsing on the floor with Pierce O’Leary as the seats collapsed and everyone just lost their minds. I found my uncle and cousin who were sitting a few rows away at the final whistle. The next thing I remember is us making our way to the players’ entrance and into the inner sanctum of the stadium. Martin’s jibbing skills led the way, but as I remember the Liverpool staff were so shell-shocked we just waltzed past. Next thing we’re in the dressing room and I’m standing next to Nigel, Lee and the boys as they celebrate. Surreal doesn’t come into it. My cousin Dean and myself then grabbed a ball and walked out on to the Anfield pitch, ran up to the Kop end and had a kick-around until someone shouted for us to get off the pitch.
We found ourselves living out our wildest fantasies on the Anfield turf after the game. As we ran out of the tunnel, I recall looking towards an empty Kop end and seeing some of the bouquets of flowers that the teams had both brought out before kick-off laying forlorn on the terraces. In our elation, Hillsborough had for those wondrous moments lost its significance. I ran down to the away end to re-enact Mickey’s goal, and I recall how the section where the Arsenal fans were sat was a total wreck. I found my seat, yanked it off and took it home with me, where it remains to this day, a filthy piece of cream-coloured plastic in a cupboard above the washing machine.
It must have been about ten minutes after the final whistle and we were all finally catching our breath. As they were preparing for the trophy presentation, a guy in his sixties asked me how old I was. I told him I was 20 and while smiling he shook his head and said he felt sorry for me. When I asked why he said that even if I was still following Arsenal when his age I would never have a moment better than we’d just experienced. He was right of course.
I just remember being lifted off my feet and into orbit. I chose to go to Anfield that day instead of doing my GCSE history exam. It was well worth the U grade I got, trust me.
When we scored I had jumped up on to my seat and my leg went through the plastic backing leaving a permanent scar on my leg that I show to anyone given half a chance to say I WAS THERE! After the game I can remember that the Arsenal supporters ransacked a petrol station for drinks and food (apologies).
Even though I was working that night as a photographer I was able to feel this sense of pride as an Arsenal fan. On the way home we stopped at a service station. I thought I had seen it all that night. I heard this guy first of all, he had his back to me, with a very loud cockney voice screaming down a payphone. I passed him and noticed his blood-stained shirt was ripped open, his nose wasn’t looking too good and he was singing ‘We won the league on Merseyside’ at the top of his voice. Today he would have been surrounded by people on mobiles taking a video. As a photographer it’s an image I never got to take but it’s an impression I have never forgotten.
In hindsight, given what had happened a few weeks before at Hillsborough, it is a painful paradox to reflect on how many of us around that time loved the motion and energy of a football terrace much more than being in seats. My memory of Michael Thomas’s goal and its aftermath is mashed up with how it felt to be within this sprawling mass of emotion. The best analogy I could ever come up with was like being in the sea. It was like going under a sudden wave – that slightly surreal world where things get muffled and dizzying – and then coming up for air and into the light and noise. Sensory overload. A whirlwind of happiness. I found I had travelled to a different part of the terrace, away from my friends, and grabbed the nearest people to hug. One was straight out of the skinhead, tattooed hooligan school of the times, sobbing like a baby. The next was an Irish guy in a trance mumbling ‘It’s my birthday’ again and again. Those seconds were like an out of body experience.
All these people who I never saw before or since – we overlapped in each other’s lives for a minute or two at most – but I remember them so clearly. Two Liverpool fans who hopped on to the pitch and ran down to the away fans before opening up their home-made flag in honour of those lost at Hillsborough. A tall skinny Scouser with trademark tracksuit and moustache had been part of the group who waited outside for the Arsenal fans to emerge and clasped my hand to shake while saying well done. We swapped mementos. I offered my yellow and blue bar scarf, he offered his red silk flag adorned with the liver bird. Still have it of course.
I remember sitting back on the coach and a young Liverpool fan getting on board before emotionally congratulating us. Heading back to London and the one thing I remember vividly is how incredibly thirsty we were – we stopped to get petrol and one of our group tried to run in and buy some drinks, only to be ushered back on to the coach by the police empty-handed.
Once in the car one of the lads says he’s hungry so we decide to stop at a chip shop. We get our chips and I go out to the car to find … no car. Here I am, bag of chips in hand, standing all alone in Liverpool wearing an Arsenal shirt. Couple of minutes pass and I hear my mates giggling. They’d moved the car round the corner.
Outside the car park my dad kissed an Everton fan, who happened to be a policewoman. We hit the M25 at some unearthly hour and we were alongside the coach with the team in it. What a feeling. All I remember is seeing Winterburn going mad. They waved, we waved. An incredible feeling.
Passing the players’ coach on the way back I remember the ecstatic honking of the coach horn. Later we watched the video and found ourselves in the crowd with our hats on, something we love to this day.
We ended up coming back in a coach a bit worse for wear but still remember everyone drinking and on the TV was Crocodile Dundee.
We had something sounding like psychedelic Greek music on the coach home, which added to the surreal nature of it all. I remember getting off back at Highbury and being calf deep in the detritus of a party – cans, bottles, you name it. Then a lift back to Anna’s house to pick up the video to watch immediately and finding her mum had decorated the front door: ‘Arsenal Champions 1989’. Seeing it written out was like another big emotional wave. Jesus, this really happened.
We drove back to Burger King, Leicester Square, as in those days there wasn’t many places open at 4–5 a.m.
In the car adrenaline pumping. We were all singing until suddenly I realised it had gone a bit quiet. It might have had something to do with the fact I was driving at 120mph and the car was about to shake apart. The party lasted all weekend until I finally ran out of adrenaline and was woken lying in the sun on London Bridge station by a concerned British Rail man who packed me on a train to Woolwich. I have no recollection of how I got there.
Journey home flew by and when we pulled up outside Highbury the crowd cheered us as returning heroes – we hadn’t even kicked a ball! Handshakes and hugs all round as we got off the coach. On to Trafalgar Square, dancing in the fountains with new-found Gooner friends.
When we got home at around 3 a.m., our father was sitting on the roof of his car, drinking champagne.
I had an Arsenal bedspread with the crest on it. Hadn’t used it for a while (I was 20) and my folks had found it. When I got home after watching the game it was hanging from the front of our house and specifically my bedroom window. It stayed there all weekend.
We headed back to London in a daze. Stopping at the services we saw several familiar away day supporters and everyone was so happy, hugging; the petrol station was like being at a party. Onwards we went and then we found ourselves behind the team coach and the objective was to follow it to see where it was heading. Into Southgate it went and then I got caught at traffic lights, we lost it and the decision was to head to Highbury, where we found no coach but still a lot of supporters. The coach had headed to the Winners club. We were gutted as we knew Niall Quinn (he was dating a good friend of our family) and felt confident we would have got in.
I lived in Southgate at that time and heading in – not a car or person in sight at that early hour – I noticed a coach approaching us. On closer inspection it was the Arsenal team coach. And it had just stopped outside a local nightclub. So, naturally, I span the car around and greeted our Division One champions off the coach. Us dressed in our full Arsenal colours. The players hugged us and cheered with us. We tried our best to enter the club but that was not permitted.
The guy who organised the coach I travelled up on had welcomed us earlier that day by stating, ‘If we win tonight all the players are coming back to my club, and you’re all welcome to join us.’ As we had never met him we were slightly sceptical that this would actually happen (the players at the club, and the bit about us winning). As the coach pulled away from Anfield he pulled a crate of bubbly out and we happily toasted our way back down the motorway.
I had organised the coach to Anfield. There were 19 of us, and I invited everyone back to the club. My brother and I ran Winners, a private members’ club – a luxury bar with 24 snooker tables and a gym underneath. A lot of the Arsenal boys would come and relax in the afternoon with a few drinks and play a little bit of snooker and stuff like that and they were left alone. I wouldn’t say they were fixtures of the club but they were there a lot and one day we were just having a chat and I said to the boys, ‘It’s here if you want it.’ We would lay on food, platters of steaks. Quinny turned round and said, whatever happens we’ll come – not that we believed they would. When we got off the coach one of the staff came running up to me. He’s like, ‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’ And I said, ‘Who’s coming?’ ‘The boys are on their way. We’ve just had a phone call. The team coach is coming down. They’re about an hour behind you.’
One of my schoolfriends, Theo, knew Tony and that was how we ended up on his coach and then suddenly part of the group invited to the salubrious, exclusive membership bar Winners, which on the outside didn’t look as good as it did on the inside. They had to clear out the people in there and we had to all go down the side toilet and hide in this little gym. We were hiding under tables all going, ‘Shhh! Shhh! Shhh! The police are coming. Someone’s coming.’ I was thinking, why are we going through all this just to have a drink? We could have a drink anywhere. The players aren’t going to come. Then all of a sudden they started coming in. One by one. Paul Merson, Alan Smith, Rocky, Michael Thomas. Brian Marwood was mental. The trophy.
They did a guard of honour for David O’Leary. He walked in through the crowd of players with everyone clapping him.
It’s difficult to recount just how monumentally mental that night was. The sight of the newly crowned English Football League champions trooping in with their Aquascutum blazers suggests some formality, but their ties at half mast hinted at the party that had already been in full swing on the team coach. Our jaws hit the floor with each player that appeared through the doorway but we eventually regained our composure and settled in for the night.
We were just one of the boys for the rest of the night, playing pool, singing songs and drinking long into the early hours. I’ve lost count of how many times I stepped back, looked at where I was, who I was with and what had happened with these football gods just a few hours earlier … and said to myself, ‘Fuuuuuuuuuck!’ I didn’t want the night to end and we finally staggered out into the bright May sunshine in the morning. I had Perry Groves’ tie, my match ticket and programme signed by the two goal-scorers and a head full of memories like no others.
The players wanted to play pool and we challenged them to the odd game. We thought it would be fun if we played for clothes. I don’t think we had much to give them though. Smudger beat me and he just gave me his tie after. There you go.
Believe it or not I actually beat Gus Caesar at pool that night. He said, ‘I suppose you want my tie or something.’ I said, ‘No, you’re all right.’ We all thought he was a Tottenham fan. Someone nicked Tony Adams’ blazer. This lovely navy blazer with the yellow cannon on the crest. It was enormous on him. We ganged up on him and made him take the blazer back to Highbury. Even we were scared of George Graham as fans.
Tony Adams locked up the club with me. It was daylight. The last three people out of there were myself, my wife and Tony Adams.
At one point I remember looking around and thinking, just four hours ago I was watching these boys score the most unbelievable goal in the history of our club and now we’re sitting here. It was what we were living for. We were living for that day to win the league for Arsenal. We’d gone to every single game that season because we thought there was something special about this team. I left with Mickey Thomas and we picked up the first delivery of newspapers. We walked around the corner from the club. There was a sweet shop as you used to call them in those days. It was about 6.30 in the morning. The papers were piled outside in their bundles. He went and picked the bundles up. I helped him. Then we sat there on the floor reading the newspapers. We were splattered all over them obviously. Just amazing.
In the pub in Liverpool before the game we’d bumped into a random bloke with his girlfriend and got chatting. He gave us his number and we thought nothing of it. Anyway after the game we called this bloke and he invited us round to his flat. We got there and there was wall-to-wall photos of him and his brothers with celebs – turns out it was the brother of the boxer John Conteh. We stayed up all night drinking.
I remember leaving the stadium and wanting to go on the buses back to London, but I walked back to the city centre and went to my regular indie club night at JD’s on Hanover Street, which I went to being a student in Liverpool that year. The next morning I got up and bought all the papers from a shop on Penny Lane. Unfortunately a lot of them were northern editions and had headlines like ‘Robbed’. I still have them.
I was in my final year of teacher training at Chester College in 1989. A good friend of mine was a big Liverpool fan whose uncle was chief scout. I stood on the Kop with him. After the game my mate took me back to his dad’s working men’s club where I was bought drinks all night.
I am a Middlesbrough supporter so was one of the few people there that night that was neutral. I was editor of the student magazine at Liverpool Poly and we’d gone down to Anfield on the Monday after the tragedy to leave flowers on the pitch. The atmosphere on the Kop at the game was buoyant, a sense of expectation of a Double which might ease the pain a little. So the sense of disbelief, anger even, was palpable when Thomas scored and the league title disappeared into the scrum of yellow at the other end of the pitch. I stayed on to congratulate the Arsenal players on an emptying Kop. The game continued to play a role in my life. On 13 April 1997 I went to see Fever Pitch for a first date with the woman who is now my wife of 18 years.
We had parked in the street a few minutes’ walk from the ground before the game and as we got out of the car the person whose house we parked outside said he would keep an eye on the car for us. After the game, when we got back to the car there was some shouting from up the road. He opened the door and asked us if we wanted to come in till the shouting was over. In conversation with him and his wife it turned out they were Everton fans, but their son was a Liverpool fan who had died at Hillsborough. They made us sandwiches and poured beers. Their hospitality was amazing, especially as football had taken their son from them a few weeks previously. Of course, for us it was ‘one of those nights’ but for them it was something different entirely.
As a Spurs supporter, I was working as an 18-year-old behind the bar at The Compasses in Abbots Langley, Watford on the night of this match. The only TV in the pub was a tiny set perched on a ledge very high behind the bar above the optics. The landlord, Ron Vodden, was an Arsenal fan and most of the pub had Gooners obviously drinking in it that night. As a Spurs fan, I had to watch and serve all these people all night. When Mickey Thomas went on that run and scored the whole pub erupted! The final whistle blew and Ron went down to the cellar to get two crates of champagne and then ordered a lock-in. He asked me if I could serve on for a bit and he would make it worth my while. The party got started with all these Gooners standing on chairs singing their hearts out. After 1.30 a.m. with everyone eventually gone Ron thanked me and gave me an extra 20 quid. I said thanks, Ron, and can I say something? Yes, he replied. I said, you can stick your job right up your effing Arsenal, and then left.
I was at my mum’s house on the border of Brixton and Clapham in what was my childhood bedroom because David was away and, with a new baby, it was nice to be around my family. I had just had Melissa in February. I had just fed her, she was lying on my lap, I was patting her to sleep when the second goal went in. I nearly leaped up and dropped her. But I didn’t. I managed to remember I had a baby on my lap.
It is all so vivid. When Arsenal scored early in the second half I can remember that my mum was cleaning the downstairs toilet and obviously heard the commentary. She came running through with her rubber gloves on and said ‘Who’s scored? Who’s scored?’ The move for the second goal still feels like it was yesterday as it started with my uncle John in goal. My dad recorded the match on VHS and I remember for weeks afterwards watching it back on video and rewinding the second goal and watching it over and over again. The final thing I remember was the camera showing the Arsenal fans celebrating after the final whistle and just thinking of my dad and grandparents being in the away end. It looked absolutely joyous.
After Alan Smith’s goal I remember thinking, oh, there’s no point scoring again now because they’re only going to go and let one in. So don’t do it yet. That would be a disaster. Winning 2–0 now would be a disaster. When Michael Thomas missed that chance I remember the thought going through my head that we’d be talking about this for years, when Michael Thomas could have won us the league … and then we entered this parallel universe where my team who I’d been watching for all those years could win the league and there was an ecstatic pile of bodies on the floor in this living room in Highbury. And then everyone got up and went ‘How long’s left? How long’s left?’ Those last two minutes were terrifying.
Then it was just shouting and hugging. I ran to the corner shop and bought a bottle of champagne. It was a make of champagne I’d never heard of before. I don’t know what the bloke said to me. ‘That’s £30 please’ or something like that – in 1989 – and I was like ‘Oh whatever’ and went back in and drank this bottle of champagne. People just started pouring out and then arriving and so we went back out having drunk the champagne and I stayed there for quite a while. It felt like you were living in Greece or somewhere. It was really extraordinary. People in their cars hooting their horns. It wasn’t like English behaviour in fact. I mean, perhaps it is. Perhaps people do that in Liverpool every year, it’s just that we never got to see. But it was very exotic and carnival-like.
We love Mickey. We used to go ‘Oh Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey …’ Mickey was one of ours. Mickey played left-back in the youth team. He was a monster. He was so fast. So fit. So strong. So fearless. Quiet. Never spoke. Just patrolled the field, winning the ball, giving it to good players. But he had a lung-busting fitness. He could get forward and he got in the box at the end and he took his moment. He didn’t snatch it, like he had the first chance. He had a look at Bruce Grobbelaar. One of the best goalkeepers in the world. He had a look at the net. He took his time and we’re like, HIT IT! We just want him to lamp it. Just blast it through his face into the net. Why is he waiting?! Then pandemonium. That’s the only word to describe it. Pandemonium. Just all over each other. Tom swears he took my virginity in that moment. Cigarette down the back of the sofa. Damian’s dad trying to stop the sofa burning, which was a big fear in the 70s and 80s – the smouldering flame.
We were very excitable. We watched the post-match interviews such as they were. The whole thing was being steered by Brian Moore in the most exemplary way, and we can all recite his commentary. We went down to the Neptune pub, which was on the beach in Whitstable, and there were loads of students in there who didn’t like football. We found one other Arsenal fan who was going around Whitstable looking for Arsenal fans to be with and then someone had a house party. They played quite a lot of Motown songs and Damian and I turned the lyrics of every song into some song about Arsenal to the point people were pouring drinks on us to shut us up. It was one of the greatest days of our lives.
A few of us staff were watching it together inside Highbury on a rented TV. The way the goal built up it was like suspended animation. Everyone was just rising from their seats as they do at the games. The son of our current chairman Sir Chips Keswick, Toby, was actually working in the box office and was one of the guests on the night. When Mickey started his run he stood up and he started walking towards the TV, and it was as though it was sucking him in, saying: this is it. We were shouting: ‘Get out the way!’
When Mickey scored the goal the whole thing went to mayhem and then a few minutes later we were aware of people in the street and we opened the windows. We were about three floors up and looked down and there were people congregating – 50 turned to a hundred and in the end it was like that scene out of Fever Pitch with over a thousand people. That went on for quite a few hours.
They were renovating the front of the East Stand and it looked like a scene out of one of those old movies where everyone’s hanging from the rigging. Everyone was out there celebrating. When we went to go the only way out was out the back of the West Stand and at the time the pitch was having the under-soil heating done so it was like a ploughed field.
I remember leaving at 7.30 in the morning and walking across the pitch in the mud.
I’m in this quiet village called Great Horkesley just outside Colchester and it’s killing me. I was on the floor. I remember looking up and seeing my legs kicking. I was so elated and excited and all I wanted to do was to go to Highbury so I could just celebrate with other people. The only person I could celebrate with is my buddy who doesn’t really know anything about football and is just round my house for band practice. Nothing compares to watching that on the television and the effect it had on me at the time.
I covered for my sister, Amy, who went. Had a row with my girlfriend when I said I wasn’t going round. Watched it alone on TV. Put the phone receiver against the TV with two minutes to go so Dad, who was abroad, could hear the end. Writhed around on the floor when we scored. Went out to the Bull and Bush where Arsenal fans had started gathering to get pissed. Ran down the road at 5 a.m. to welcome Amy home from Anfield.
I joined the Daily Star in November 1988 as a sub-editor on sport. It was my first job on a national. My early memories of the day was that shortly after getting in at around 4 p.m., the death of Don Revie was announced, but, despite this, the night was going very smoothly until kick-off time.
Off-stone timings, the point at which no more changes can be made, were always tight for us on match nights. But the plan was to fill the paper during the evening and leave the back page and the inside two pages clear for the game. The deputy sports editor, a legend called Ian Stirrup, was running the desk. Stirro was a massive Liverpool fan and had the air of someone who thought the night would be smooth as you like and he could start celebrating as soon as the paper was done.
Ian drew up two back pages, one for an Arsenal win, one for a Liverpool win and we would have copy for both. The inside spread was drawn up to allow for a couple of big pictures and a slot for the match. It was just another night in the office. The closer we came to the final whistle the more straightforward things looked. Our man covering the game would file on 80 minutes and it would be a case of subbing it up and waiting for an intro and four pars on the whistle, and getting it away as fast as we could because the presses were holding for us. I remember seeing a spread headline along the lines of: KENNY’S CROWNING GLORY.
When Mickey scored I jumped about three foot in the air and hugged a messenger I didn’t know. Then somehow I got a grip because we had a job to do. The Kenny headline was changed in a flash to: BY GEORGE THEY’VE DONE IT.
When we scored the winner our very possessive poodle thought I was attacking the wife so he bit my leg. I have kept that tracksuit with the hole in them all these years and I’ve still got the scar.
It was very tense in our living room. I admitted defeat with five minutes to go and actually turned the VCR off. I was gutted. David Pleat said maybe poetic justice had been done with Arsenal winning on the night but Liverpool taking the title. My dad always said he was full of piss and wind. Then came the goal and we both lost it.
I only just made it home in time for kick-off. Sensational commentary from legendary Brian Moore (I had been at UEA with his son Simon). The blessed goal. My girlfriend (non football fan) was in the bath upstairs. I leapt in the air punching upwards and thereby smashing the lounge chandelier and fusing all the lights in the house, but thankfully not the TV. My girlfriend shouted from the darkness ‘what the hell is going on?’
My mum just went ballistic, which was totally out of character. She jumped up and down like a mad lady.
I recall my mum’s sister called round just before the game and I honestly couldn’t believe she had called in for a casual chat as the game was about to kick off. The scenes when Mickey Thomas scored will never be forgotten. I have never seen my dad move so quick. Although he was a season ticket holder he rarely showed much emotion. On the final whistle our house phone rang and it was my uncle David from Dublin ringing to congratulate us. He fondly refers to us as the Arsenal Brennans. After the TV coverage finished we played darts in the garage and my older brother Tom and his mates were allowed a can of beer. To this day on the ply around the dartboard the Scousebusters graffiti remains.
I was 18 and although a massive fan, decided to work on the night as I just couldn’t take the stress. I was working at a hotel in Bar Hill, Cambridge, in the leisure centre, on my own that night. I had to man the swimming pool. I closed the centre at half-time and watched the second half on a 14-inch colour TV by the pool. The winner, well I had no choice but to jump fully clothed into the pool of course. My dad picked me up just after the finish in his new Audi 80 and was really upset I was so wet until he smiled and said, ‘I have waited for this for a long time.’ He was born in Islington – went to Arsenal during the war, where he was passed down to the front to sit on the side of the pitch.
When Mickey scored, my sister’s boyfriend Bernie, cigarette still in hand, launched himself towards the TV screen. We were still picking up fag ash days later. Thirty years on, and Bernie, who would later marry my sister, is sadly no longer with us but I will never forget our celebrations that night. And now, whenever we’re playing a big match, I raise a glass to him.
Whilst driving near Old Street, Smudger scored. I pulled my car up and leant on my horn. Across the road the only other car on the road, a black cab, did the same. We both got out of the car, ran to each other, did a jig, linked arms and then got back to our vehicles. I made it to Victoria for the second half, my brother was there and there were about six other medic friends who had absolutely no interest in the game. We were told to turn the volume down and stop making a noise on a number of occasions. They were surprised at me being a football fan who went to games. In the 1980s you didn’t admit to that; going to gigs sure, but football was full of hooligans.
I did not see the celebration, didn’t see Thomas’s fish-out-of-water dance, didn’t see Winterburn storm across the goal, didn’t see the rabid away supporters having out-of-body experiences. At the time, I was lying face down, on the filthy floor of a London pub, on the bottom of a pile of men and boys that must’ve totalled 15 people. I’m not a clean freak, but I was lucky to get away from that experience without life-changing infections and illnesses. But it was, to that point, the single greatest moment of my life.
When Mickey scored me and my dad were rolling around on the lounge floor in floods of tears and my mum was knitting. That night all I remember is running down Maidstone High Street in my Spandau Ballet-style suit wearing my yellow and blue bobble hat and jumping up and down uncontrollably with anyone who wanted to join in.
I had a terrible bout of food poisoning and hadn’t been able to keep a thing down for a day or so … except apple juice. I bought myself a little juice box – it was going to be my celebration tipple – and tuned in for the game. I reckon I must have peeled off the little straw just as Thomas went ‘charging through the midfield’. I never drank it. Kept that apple juice carton for years.
On my way home from work with my fiancée I told her I had put £100 on Arsenal to win 2–0 that evening at 16/1. We watched the game on TV and when Michael Thomas scored she was dancing round the room thinking of £1,600 whilst I dropped to my knees punching the air and announced, this is the best thing to happen in my life. She turned and looked sadly at me as we were getting married that July. To make matters worse, I didn’t have the nerve to put £100 on a bet so she missed out on the £1,600.
I was 11. I ran out on to the street and just ran, arms stretched and screaming. I didn’t see the end of the game and there was a moment outside that I realised that Liverpool might score and we could lose, so I ran back inside to see the celebrations on the pitch. The TV was turned off, my parents sent me off to bed and I didn’t sleep for hours. I was reading my Junior Gunners magazines over and over again, imagining I was Rocky.
I wasn’t there. Had to go to an 18th birthday that night in a cricket club. I went confident they would have a TV and was distraught to arrive and find that wasn’t the case. So intermittently I sneaked out to my Mark II Escort to listen on the radio. With 15 minutes to go I returned to the car. A Spurs fan soon joined me and laughed as Thomas missed a chance. Tension rose and then the famous goal. I started to headbutt the steering wheel in joy and the Spurs fan swore and got out of the car.
I was an 11-year-old kid. My abiding memory is jumping up on the coffee table (hand-made by my father) when Michael Thomas netted, breaking said table and waking my baby brother who was asleep in a bassinet beside us.
I will always remember the night of 26 May 1989. There was something magical about that day and summer, the sun always shone, everything was brilliant, life was perfect. I had a lovely girlfriend who hated football, but it was Michael Thomas who I was really in love with.
I was 17 and at a party in Croydon. It was the days before mobile phones, so I had to find a payphone so I could call my parents. I had to keep phoning for updates from this crappy little room in Croydon Arena, and totally missing the party. Eventually, after I got the news, cue the best party for one.
My dad, who used to live on Avenell Road, had a thing where he could never watch a match live because it was too stressful so he used to tape them and watch them back after, if we’d won. That night I persuaded him to watch it with me but as it moved closer to full-time, in true Fever Pitch style, he started to insist on turning the TV off. Noooo, I begged and pleaded. All the while he was getting more and more stressed. So what happened … did my dad win, the TV was turned off and neither of us got to see Mickey Thomas score the most famous goal in Arsenal history, or did the 13-year-old prevail and we shared the best footballing memory I have to this day? Of course, I won.
I was babysitting two young kids, both also Arsenal fans. As kick-off was fast approaching, both kids poked their heads around the living room door pleading to be allowed to stay up and watch the big match. Being the big softie I, of course, let them stay up. What a great atmosphere we created in our little corner of north-west Kent. I’m glad I let them watch the greatest ever ending to a season in real time.
I was five months pregnant and jumping up and down in my living room! On and off the sofa … not to be recommended.
Absolutely the best day of my life! For two reasons: the first being obvious, but the second was because my wife told me she was pregnant that day. On 5 February 1990 my wife gave birth to a boy called Thomas.
I was a teenager living in Grantham and a huge Nottingham Forest fan. A group of us travelled all around the country every single week to watch them play. 89 was obviously Hillsborough. Then there was the peculiar rematch of the semi-final at Old Trafford, which Liverpool won before going on to win the FA Cup. There was some bad feeling after that game between Forest and Liverpool due to the behaviour of John Aldridge, who ruffled the hair of Brian Laws after Laws scored an own goal.
I recall the Liverpool v Arsenal game. We were all supporting Arsenal simply because the game was against Liverpool. When we arrived at the works social club there were loads of lads in the car park and all mayhem was breaking loose. The rest of the evening involved several scuffles, fights and numerous expulsions (I think the police arrived at one point) as trouble broke out between Liverpool fans (lots in those days), Arsenal fans (a scattering) but mostly fans of other sides.
At the time I was driving a taxi in Liverpool. I picked up a fare who was desperately trying to get into the local pub for the last few minutes of the game. ‘Quick, quick,’ he said. He threw a £10 note at me for the £1.40 fare and ran into the pub, which at this point was absolutely pounding out Liverpool songs and great delirium. As he disappeared into the pub and I put away my money, all of sudden a deathly silence came over the pub, you could hear a pin drop. I realised what had happened and I drove away quickly.
I remember ringing my dad from the pub after the final whistle. No words were spoken, we just laughed for a few minutes (bitter Evertonians).
I was 19 and watched on a giant old wooden TV in my bedroom with a few mates. It was the only game we’d ever watched together at that time. When Thomas scored the room erupted and one of my friends snapped my bed by jumping on it. It was all very poignant as my mum had terminal cancer and she was watching downstairs. It was her dad who told me all about The Arsenal and made me the fan I have always been. I celebrated with her afterwards and it was the last football match she ever watched, passing in the September. My mates and I then headed off to a college band night and proceeded to drink the place dry. No one knew the score and I had great pleasure drunkenly announcing it over the PA.
I was 13 and got to watch the game alone on the big TV at home, that’s how big a deal it was, trying not to wake up my mother sleeping next door. Imagine hopping around a tiny front room celebrating Michael Thomas scoring in silence so as not to wake my mother. It ended with me waving a flag out of my bedroom window using my dad’s pool cue as a flagpole. I still have the flag. Oh yeah, I lived in South Tottenham, not really Arsenal territory.
My wife and I had a flat on Upper Street, Islington in May 1989. We were expecting our first child and it was therefore not exactly the kind of calm and relaxing evening we maybe should have had. When Michael Thomas scored, I instinctively ran to the back of the flat and kicked open the doors leading out on to a terrace, from where I let out a guttural, primeval scream of pure joy.
Given it was a warm and still evening, my clear memory was of sporadic whoops and then a gradual groundswell of cheering, laughing and excitement crackling through the Islington night air. Looking back, it was probably the absence of mobile phones that made such a difference. News and excitement filtered around groups of people engaging, smiling and singing. We spontaneously headed down to the off-licence and then joined others on what felt like a rather noisy pilgrimage. Highbury was the only and obvious place to be. Just sheer joy and a feeling of togetherness. And for my wife (new to football’s madness) she says it was the first time she ‘got it’.
I went to Highbury where I joined thousands of Arsenal fans celebrating outside the stadium. It was like I had to go and be around Arsenal supporters to share the best moment of my life at the place where I had grown up dreaming of this day. There was scaffolding up around the stadium as they were doing refurbishments and fans were climbing it and dancing on the platforms. I remember seeing people on the roofs of buildings singing songs and strangers hugging each other. I never wanted it to end.
The next day I was on a 9 a.m.–9 p.m. shift in A&E. It was one of the quietest I’ve ever done. I swear the whole of Archway was still drunk. Most folk who came in with minor ailments were so happy. Many had red shirts on and they were delighted to see my red tie emblazoned with a cannon. I spent more time talking to patients about the game than their illness.
89 still leaves me deliriously happy and very remorseful at the same time. I was 22, had just started my dream job, the game got switched to Friday night and I didn’t have the balls to ask my new (football atheist) boss for the day off. I had and still have a ticket, a reminder of the day that never was for me. To make things even worse my mates not only went to the game without me but they also got in to the after-party with the team. So I am constantly reminded of what could have been.
Having been a home and away Gooner most of my adult life (including a run of 500-plus games) I was then offered a match ticket by a work colleague on the morning of the match, only to decline on the grounds it was my wife’s birthday. Now ex-wife, but there you go. Never had any trouble remembering her birthday though …
I was seven and back in the days when top-flight football was on terrestrial TV, I watched the game. My first ever Arsenal game. I remember thinking, wow, is every game like this?
I was eight years old. When Mickey scored I sprinted upstairs to the bathroom, flung open the door and screamed at my startled mum ‘WE’VE DONE IT! WE’VE DONE IT!!’ I still remember her in her shower cap leaning forward from her prone relaxation in the tub and looking at me saying ‘We’ve done it?’ She was as disbelieving as the whole nation. The final whistle and my dad grabs me, his beard bristles against my cheek. My mum comes down in her robe. Then my grandmother, born in Essex Road, Islington, comes round, celebrating. My aunt drives straight over. Our next-door neighbour Clive – a Spurs fan – rings the doorbell and graciously gives my dad a bottle of wine. The landline phone does not stop ringing. All night. Friends long out of contact picking out my dad’s name from their phone book to congratulate him. Family far away doing the same. At that moment, that night, my dad was the centre of the universe, and it is all thanks to Mickey Thomas.
The next day, hungover but still elated, I was at home relaxing and planning to go back out celebrating again when the phone rang. It was my wife phoning from Ireland. I thought she might have been phoning about the result, but unfortunately no. She just blurted out, ‘Mammy’s dead.’
I then had to try and find her two young nephews, also Arsenal supporters, who had only recently arrived in London looking for work. Back down in my local looking for my wife’s nephews, the celebrations were still continuing and while I was there someone connected with the club brought the trophy in. I have a photo somewhere of me holding it. Talk about a weekend of mixed emotions. Anyway, to finish, I eventually found the two nephews and needless to say they were both completely broken and cashless. The governor of the pub, Tom, who had met my mother-in-law a couple of times, actually paid both their flights back to Ireland.
I was studying in Cheltenham in my halls of residence and a load of us had a TV set up in the hallway with beers ready to watch Liverpool’s inevitable win. I was the only Arsenal fan and was sat next to a friend of mine who was a Liverpool fan who was fortunate enough to turn down a ticket to Hillsborough where his friend was one of the unfortunate 96 not to make it away. As a result there was an odd atmosphere in the group. With the clock ticking down and our feat of leading 1–0 looking like an honourable effort I turned to Matt and congratulated him on the title. The rest is history.
I had obtained two tickets the day before the game to pick up in Liverpool. I didn’t tell my son and on Friday I waited for him to arrive at work with the exciting news that we were going. I waited and waited. No mobile phones then so I was at a loss to know what was happening. It was now the afternoon and reports were coming in about the terrible traffic jams on the motorway. Result was that I decided it was now too late to go and had to make the call for the tickets to be released elsewhere. I next saw him on the Monday and he had no good reason for not coming in on the Friday. We had a massive row and I didn’t speak to him for weeks. He never did tell me what had happened. We obviously made it up later and he was a crowd extra in the Highbury celebration scene in Fever Pitch. I tragically lost him in 1999 and every 26 May I watch Fever Pitch as a memory of my personal events of that day and for my son.
After some dark days in the 70s and 80s, and particularly the Hillsborough tragedy, the evening felt like a new dawn. A cathartic re-fresh, and 1989 became a very poignant year for us; along with the backdrop of the Berlin Wall coming down later that year, with our daughter born on the day it came down, and also with a new job and a new house, the league win seemed to be the catalyst for an exciting change and a new era of hope.
The next morning there was a knock on my front door. ‘Sorry, mister, my dad’s a Liverpool fan and he says can you take down your flag?’ I would like to apologise to that lad for my reply. It was unseemly and impolite.
I remember watching this match on TV in my bedroom as a 16-year-old. I often watched with a friend but this match was too important to be somewhere else. When it finished I turned the TV off and sat in the dark for about an hour. Just a feeling of emptiness I’ve never felt in any other game. I didn’t want to go to school or do anything, didn’t want to talk to anyone. I still can’t quite believe it happened. I’m sure it’s related to Hillsborough and the feelings are probably linked. I hope I never have to feel that low again for any sport.
When Michael Thomas got the goal at the end I remember just stunned disbelief, and I sank to the ground and just sat on the terrace with my head in my hands. We left quickly after the final whistle and the atmosphere on the 27 bus home was one of silence and shock – I remember saying to Andy as I got off ‘at least we won the FA Cup’ and immediately regretted it as it just sounded so hollow. In retrospect it was a devastating day for us, but, while we all felt the pain, the bigger picture meant that we really couldn’t feel too sorry for ourselves in light of the wider context – we had lost a championship in the worst possible way, but our friends had lost their lives, and the press and establishment were busy spewing their lies and hatred on all of us.
The game was played on our final day of school before we left for study leave and sat our A levels. My best friend had never drank beer before and decided that this day would be a good time to start … The four pints of Kronenbourg at lunchtime and a couple of Newcastle Brown Ales for good measure ended up being deposited in my lap by ‘Boy Chunder’ as we watched Michael Thomas score the winner for Arsenal. We are both Liverpool fans so … NOT. A. GOOD. DAY. PS: He then ended up snogging the best-looking girl in school.
I was ten years old and followed Liverpool the best I could from South Wales. My father, a Liverpool fan, had been promising to take me to a match for a while. I had very little contact with my dad as he’d separated from my mother when I was three and it was a bit sour. Anyway on this occasion he followed through with his promise and got us on to a supporters’ bus trip from a nearby town. He was a regular on this bus which didn’t normally take children. The trip up to Anfield is around four hours and I loved every second of it. I was in awe of all the men around me drinking and singing songs that I only knew from the TV. But honestly, the best thing for me was spending time with my father.
When we arrived at Anfield I don’t think I blinked for a good hour. I’m not sure I took many breaths either. It was everything I expected and more. The smells, the noises and the crowds. It was also a bit of a reality check for me seeing all the scarves and flowers still laid out, outside Anfield in the aftermath of Hillsborough.
We were sat three rows from the front of the paddock right in the corner by the Kop. The noise was incredible. I do remember the Arsenal fans singing too, it was a different noise though, obviously fewer supporters but still very loud. We all know how the game ended. I vividly remember some of the Arsenal players coming around the pitch towards us with the trophy and getting the applause they deserved but I was numb. I remember thinking, maybe I’m not into football as much as I thought, because this feels shit.
The journey home was horrible, almost four hours of silence, a bad copy of a film playing on the coach video player (RoboCop I think). That would be the one and only game my father ever took me to. I didn’t return to Anfield for a few years, until I was old enough to go on the coach with friends. My second game was against Blackburn at Anfield, the year they won the league. So my record was two games, two league titles. Unfortunately none for Liverpool.
I have always felt, given the utterly incredible context of the game, that I was honoured and privileged to have been at it. The way in which it played out just enhances the sense of witnessing football history and the uniqueness of the match. The personal reason for this match holding a place in my heart is it invokes such melancholy for my dad. He passed away many years ago now. It was my dad, wholly unfamiliar with the world of football and culture around tickets and touting, who somehow, miraculously, produced my oh so precious ticket for the Kop that night.
Simply the hugest game in Football League history (certainly of the modern era), he had gone outside of his normal world and comfort zones to get a ticket for his youngest, knowing how much it would mean to this child to get one. I will now never know exactly what this meant or how much money he handed over. I don’t think I made my gratitude and love clear to him at the time. My other memories include it being packed on the Kop that night, that the bouquets of flowers from Arsenal players went down very well amongst us, and the strange mixture of crushing disappointment and relief that the season was over. Just about all the Kop waited not just to see our own players but also the trophy presentation. My personal belief is this was one of the Kop’s best moments, one I am very proud to have taken part in.
I stood on the Kop as a season ticket holder. Plan for the night was simple: win the league, go to Planet X (a nightclub in town) and blow off school (I was 17). It had been my second season as a season ticket holder. Spirits were high, few bevvies on the train on the way in. I watched in horror as Thomas ran the length of the pitch unchallenged to score the second. I’d never before seen grown men crying, 21,000 of them in the heaving Kop. I’d never felt so bad about a football result. Upon trudging out we saw bus stops being smashed, road signs ripped down. We walked the 20-plus miles home in near silence; sober, cold and fed up.
It was almost silent coming out of the ground. No blaming the officials, or players, or Kenny. Just a numbness running through every fan. The events of the previous six weeks caused that. Even if we’d have won the league that night, it wouldn’t have been celebratory, like other title wins. If the fans were exhausted, then imagine what the players were like. Attending funerals, trying to train, matches every few days at the end of the season. They were on their knees at the end. They had nothing left. I would imagine the dressing room was like the streets outside Anfield at the end. Completely silent. In retrospect, it was all about winning the cup that year. The league was something of a side issue. The team and fans had to honour the 96 and we’d done that at Wembley.
I was at Anfield that night with my brother Michael, Kemlyn Road, Kop end. I don’t recall an overwhelming sense of excitement given what had happened at Hillsborough, just wanted the season over. But I also had a sense that we would never be beaten by two clear goals, which is what they needed. When the second went in there was silence from the Liverpool supporters but there was also anger I recall. ‘This can’t be happening.’ I glanced over at the away end, complete fervour. Then on the pitch, Liverpool players on their knees, each on their own in the positions they were at the final whistle. It mattered so much more than I thought it would. Hillsborough had put everything into perspective. Of course we wanted to win but the players as well as the fans had endured a terrible five weeks. Is it any wonder that there was vulnerability. It wasn’t a sense of disappointment, it was a sense of injustice. As we walked to the car I witnessed a fight between two frustrated Liverpool fans. I got home and went to bed. In the morning my mum came in and said, we’ll win it next year. We did, though the injustice of that season, what happened to us, what happened on that night, has never been resolved. Still gets me.
I was down south hosting a party with my now deceased wife, Jacqui. I keep one eye on the video recorder whilst explaining things about the weekend to our guests, as I was the organiser. But I checked my watch and said ‘excuse me, I just have to make sure that I have recorded this special game!’ … and turned on the TV … exactly as Thomas stuck the second goal in the net. I turned the TV off, and the tape off. I think I pulled the plug out from the wall.
Jacqui looked at me with a stare, expecting me to say something. I just stared at the black TV screen, I don’t know for how long. I don’t know if I made any sense. I felt empty. That night will always stay with me, as will the other event that season that changed LFC, and me, for ever.
I had met a girl in late 1988 and we had started dating. We split up a week before Hillsborough. I went to Hillsborough and there was obvious concern from herself and her family as for my well-being in the aftermath. Hillsborough brought us back together.
From 15 April until that night at Anfield seemed to last a lifetime. The city was in mourning. There was a cloud. A horrible feeling yet football was still keeping us going. That game was going to be on the Friday night at Anfield due to the rescheduling of games. Normally, of course, the league programme would be completed before the FA Cup final. We were going for the Double, as we had in 1986. I had a season ticket for the Kop and managed to get my girlfriend a ticket too. I said to her that she would see nothing like it. We win the league and the celebrations afterwards would be immense. We were totally confident of wrapping it up. The game also had an air of inevitability about it, like we were entitled to win it because of what had happened.
It didn’t work out that way of course. Arsenal were superb that night and I think we were maybe overconfident and also very tired. Our legs were gone. Drained physically and emotionally. The ball broke to Michael Thomas and I swear time stood still. It certainly did on the Kop. Silence. I still can’t get my head around why Stevie Nicol didn’t just take Thomas out. It was an obvious choice to make.
I was heartbroken. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We walked back to my girlfriend’s house five miles from Anfield. I felt so low as the emotions of the previous six weeks took hold. We got back to her house and I decided I had to be on my own so walked back home to my mum and dad’s another six miles away.
That is the lowest I have ever felt after watching my team lose a game. It meant everything to win the league that particular year and we fell short in the cruellest way possible. It was a long summer but I had a rethink and got my girlfriend a season ticket for the 89–90 season. A year later she witnessed us win that league title back. A year after that our son was born and in 1994 we were married, having our daughter in 1996.
We have split up since but are still on good terms. Highs and lows of football and fate. If it wasn’t for what happened in those six weeks I honestly think my life would have been different. No girlfriend, no son, no marriage, no daughter.
I was lucky as I got out of Hillsborough but I still see so many people in pain due to what happened. RIP 96.